


transition

by indefensibleselfindulgence



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon Typical Weirdness, Character Study, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Fever Dreams, Horror, Nightmares, Other, Praise Kink, it goes places, read my username, technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-05-28 22:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefensibleselfindulgence/pseuds/indefensibleselfindulgence
Summary: “You can just tell me what you needed the map for.”“I could,” Michael says and stands. “I could do a lot of things.”“You- you already- That's- you don't have too. Really.”  It walks over to him regardless, and Jon presses against the wall. Why does he keep trying to get away from it when it's obviously fruitless. Michael watches. “Admiring the work?”The smile makes him sick.“The Eye doesn't deserve you.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've been writing this for 6 weeks now, i don't know how this happened it was supposed to be short and quick and it is currently 21 pages so tuck in kids
> 
>  
> 
> not beta'd

Despite all of the things Jon has had to deal with, seeing Elias in the break room still shocks him every single time.  
  
It was a slow day, just two statements and little casual research and when he couldn't find Martin or Tim or Melanie or even Basira to ask them to get him tea, he was left to get it himself. It's not that he was lazy, it's just once he sat behind his desk he didn't really leave it until the day was done. And it's been like that since before the whole angry death gods thing. He was just a sedentary person. Tired from the statements, and whatever Beholding took from him when he read them.  
  
Their wing of the Institute was always a little empty, the library and artifact storage held the most people down here. There was the open to the public area, but Jon is pretty sure he's never seen a reasonable person in there.  
  
He expected the break room to be just as empty as everything else, but there his boss is, being menacing as always. Jon must stare because Elias clears his throat to snap Jon out of it.  
  
“Don't you have your own machine in the office?” Jon brushes past him and starts up the kettle. Maybe he's being pedantic, but he really should have known something was wrong with his boss after seeing him drink nothing but espresso at any and every given moment.  
  
“Broken,” Elias says with enough annoyance that makes Jon believe him.  
  
“Didn't realize they can just break like that.” He's always been more of a home brew tea type of person anyway.  
  
“Anything can break if you don't pay enough attention to it.” Elias sips his black sludge and stares at him. Does he do it to keep awake? Jon thinks about #0150806 and frowns at his tea packet. Elias can't even spring for the loose leaf.  
  
“Do you know where the others are?”  
  
“Daisy and Basira are running an errand. Tim is moping in his apartment, and Melanie and Martin went out to lunch together. At the-” Elias stops talking so abruptly Jon can't help but turn to look at him. He's almost frozen in time before- “The Cross Keys. Second table from  the front windows.” And then he drinks again. “Would you like to know what they're having?”  
  
“You don't have to show off,” Jon mutters under his breath as the kettle rings. He's never been a fan of electric.  
  
“You're the one who asked.” Jon pours himself a big mug of Irish breakfast. “Tell Melanie to stop drinking gin and tonics while the sun is still out.” And with that, the aura of smugness and casual hostility leaves the break room.  
  
Jon feels even more exhausted when he gets back to his desk, hot mug in hand. He sets in on the coaster Martin got him a week ago because there was a rim stain on a folder One Time. He can hardly be blamed for it, with a manikin breathing down his neck. He just wants some good sleep.  
  
He can't remember the last time he slept through the night.  
  
“Your boss is so mean.” Jon almost spills his mug over the statement he was going to start on next.  
  
The recorder is already on, and Michael's laughter makes his teeth hurt all the way down to the jaw.    
  
“Michael.” It smiles at him, and Jon has to look away. It's been a while since Michael was in his office. “Are we all about to die again?”  
  
“It's just you here isn't it?” Jon swallows. Yes. It is just him. And that's enough to be- “No- nothing too dire, Archivist.”  
  
“Just a friendly visit then?”  
  
“Nothing too dire,” Michael repeats, and the smile on his face gets larger. “Would you say I'm helpful, Archivist?”  
  
Would he say that? No, not particularly, but it is hard to argue that Jon would be dead without it. And how odd, that his god, that Beholding barely gave a shit about him but Distortion was there at almost every given opportunity. Michael had told him he had no interest, either way, whether Jon lived or died but.  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
“And that I've helped you, particularly?”  
  
“Yes, yes- what do you want?” Michael's lips split open impossibly far.  
  
“A Favor. Tit for tat, I believe you people say. Pay me back for the countless times I've saved your meaningless existence, Archivist.”  
  
“Twice. You saved my life twice.” Very countable. “And if it was so meaningless then why did you-”  
  
“Twice, preciously. And I'm only asking for the one favor. How generous, don't you think?” Jon stares at up at it.  
  
“Is this favor going to kill me?”  
  
“Nothing too dire.” It can't possibly need that many teeth, can it? Really? Does it even actually eat anything? “You don't even need to leave this room.”  
  
 “Alright.” Jon sits back and tries to think of what he could even want. He finishes his tea and sets the mug down on the desk again.  “What do you want me to do?”  
  
“Do you remember, when one of my wanderers spoke to you? She sat right here.” Michael's fingers dig into the fabric of the chair and a little bit of stuffing falls on to the seat.  
  
“Helen? Richardson?”  
  
“Names don't matter, Archivist.” But after a moment it nods. “Do you remember? What she was doing before you bothered her with your questions?”  
  
“She was-” What was she doing? It's all sort of a blur. Jon rubs his hand, where Michael shoved his finger through over a year ago. The scar is almost gone, just a small bit of softer skin, right in the middle of his hand. It's nothing compared to the burns on his other.  
  
“She was?” Michael leans forward until it's almost hanging over the back and twists around to sit on the chair. It's leaning forward, almost like an excited child.  
  
Jon has to rake his brain for it. There was so much- Not Them lying to him and Michael and the door that wasn't there- before all of it she was-  
  
“Trying to draw a map.”  
  
“Very good, Archivist.” The praise doesn't feel condescending, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. When was the last time anyone, anything was even slightly nice to him? Appreciated him? “Where is it?”  
  
“The- The map? It was a bunch of scribbles on printer paper- it-”  
  
“Where is it, Archivist?”  
  
Where could it be? No one touched Jon's desk, he had been very clear from the beginning, even before he was an archivist, even as a researcher he had been particular about his office. But something like Not Them wouldn't have listened. Would it have stolen it? Why would it need it? Would Basira? After all of the police investigations? Was it just a random cop who took it? Breekon and Hope were in the Institute at some point too, weren't they?  
  
“I don't know.”  
  
He could have just thrown it away.  
  
“That's not good, Archivist.” Michael stands to its full height, and Jon stares up at it.  
  
“No- Hold on.” Jon stands too. “I- Hold on. I'll look for it. When do you need it?” Michael sits back down slowly.  When not why. What was he thinking? Beholding nags at the back of his mind for an answer and he shuts it down.  
  
“I've nowhere to be.” It says. When you find it you find it. Jon understands.  
  
“Any chance you're interested in helping?”  
  
“...Printer paper, you said it was?” Michael lifts his hand and lays it flat on the book that Georgie gave him years ago in college. It was a thick hard copy, The Count of Monte Cristo, the nicest gift he's ever received, and when Michael lifts its hand, the book is bisected five ways, with paper fraying.  
  
“Right.” Jon swallows. “Of course.”  
  
Might as well have been tissue paper.  
  
Michael gets comfortable. 

  
…

  
  
At some point, Melanie and Martin get back, and Jon rushes out of his office to kick them out again. At least as far as they can get in the building away from him.  
  
“You're acting weird,” Melanie says, and Jon shrugs as if there's anything normal about anything ever again. “Was it Elias?”  
  
“Yes. It was. It was Elias.” Jon jumps at the opportunity. “He told me to tell you to stop day drinking.”  
  
Melanie scowls and turns to walk away from him. Martin doesn't. Martin never does.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“Yes, Martin. I'm fine.” He insists. It's evident that he's insisting.  
  
“How many statements have you done?”  
  
“Two.”  
  
“J-just two?” He looks at Jon and then Jon's office door. “Really? You're never here this late unless you've done five or six.”  
  
“It's not that late,” Jon says and looks down at his watch. “Only four.”  
  
“Exactly. You leave before noon when you bother coming in. It's- It's just odd, is all.”  
  
“I'm trying to spend more time out of the flat.” Martin doesn't believe him. “Listen, While I've got you-”  
  
“You always have me-”  
  
“While I've got you, do you know where #0161002 is? I've torn my office apart looking for the tape.”  
  
“...That's the-” Martin swallows and fear becomes so very evident on his face. “The corridor one, yeah? Melanie had it last, I think. Tim thought we should catch her up on the- on what we can. So she can maybe leave.”  
  
“Thank you, Martin.” He claps him on the shoulder and moves past him to Melanie's desk, trying to remember to ask Michael why Martin went pale at the thought of him. “Melanie I-”  
  
“Hm?” She looks up from a folder. “What?”  
  
“Do you have #0161002? I need it for research. Personal research.” He winces and shakes his head. “Just that it's become relevant again and I don't want to-”  
  
“Yeah. I've got it.” She pulls a cabinet drawer open and holds the tape out. Jon stares at it.  
  
“And the supplemental material?”  
  
“I only got the tape.”  
  
Fuck.  
  
“There's supposed to be a few pieces of information with it- the blueprints, her license,  a drawing- those sorts of things-”  
  
“I know what supplemental materials are, Simms. I told you, I only got the tape. Do you want it or not?” Jon takes it and heads back to his office, hands shaking.  
  
“Don't disturb me.” Jon's back is pressed to the door. “I'm serious, I've got-”  
  
“Got it!” Melanie calls from her spot.  
  
“I've got a lot of work to catch up on and-”  
  
“Okay, Jon.”  
  
He feels like a moron when he closes the door behind him, and Michael is starring at his hand.  
  
“That's not a map.”  
  
“She talks about it,” Jon says meekly. Michael's head tilts slowly, a little bit too far for a human neck to manage and it makes Jon feel all the worse.  
  
“Am I on there?” Jon looks up and regrets it.  
  
“Towards the end.” Distortion has never crossed his mind to be particularly full of vanity. “I can play it- if you want.” Maybe it'll appease it enough for one day.  
  
Michael nods, perching back on the chair to stare at the recorder. Its body bends in weird ways. Jon doesn't look at it while the recording plays, instead digging through his files. Maybe it fell through a crack, and it's just gathering dust under his desk.  
  
Why would Not Them need a scribble anyway?  
  
Maybe it fell under his desk, and he didn't notice, and then Elias bashed Leitner's skull with a pipe, and it's covered in months old dried blood. Jon almost vomits at the thought.  
  
Not that it wasn't deserved of course.  
  
He's living in the result of that moron's actions.  
  
Michael makes a weird noise when the tap gets scratchier, and its voice gets echoed through the room.  
  
Jon has no idea where this map may be.  
  
Was there even ever a map in the first place?  
  
He listens to himself groan when Michael removed its fingers from his hand, and Jon shuts the tape off. He doesn't think she took it with her. He didn't even hear it in the tape, but then who knows. Who knows anything anymore.  
  
“Hm.” Michael's frown is so much worse then it's smile. Full of disappointment.  
  
“I'll keep looking,” Jon assures. It's not like he has a choice.  
  
“Make sure that you do, Archivist.” And in an instant, it's gone, and Jon can breathe.  
  
He should have asked it why he wanted the map in the first place.  
  
He reaches for his mug, and the tea is cold.

  
…  
  


  
It's six when he musters up the courage to go and talk to Elias again.  
  
Rosie shows him into his office with a smile on her face and Jon can only begin to think of what is actually wrong with her. How aware or unaware she is of what this place actually is. What kind of people are walking in and out of the building right under her nose?  
  
He sits in the chair opposite the big desk and stares at Elias's coffee machine. It's on a small trolley with other bottles, tucked into a corner. A low red light keeps flashing into the wall, so maybe it really is broken. Not that he can trust him.  
  
Elias is probably making him wait on purpose. To make him more uncomfortable even if Jon is the one who invited himself in.  
  
“Didn't think I'd see you twice in one day.” Jon didn't even hear the door open, and Elias is already twisting into his high back leather chair.  
  
“Isn't that the whole point?”  
  
“I can't see into the future, Jon. Just the now. What can I help you with and does it have anything to do with why your office was so... distracting today?”  
  
So he knew. Of course. There wasn't any doubt that he did, but still hearing it kills any hope of playing this off cleanly.  
  
“Is it distracting?” He asks, and Elias laughs. Maybe a little edge of compulsion found it's way into the question and perhaps it was accidental. And perhaps it wasn't.  
  
“If you just develop a singular blindspot in your otherwise perfect vision, would that be distracting?” Jon nods slowly before Elias talks again. “What did it want.”  
  
Jon swallows when he realizes it's not a question.  
  
“A bit of supplemental material.” He's not going to specify if he can get away with it. For Michael's benefit.

Why is he trying to give Michael any benefit in the first place?  
  
“Jon.”  
  
“Associated with case number 0161002.”  
  
“And you can't find this. Supplemental Material.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Jon. You know I can't help you if you don't tell me anything.” There's the smug look on his face.  
  
“It's a drawing. Michael wanted it again, for some reason. It made threatening motions at my assistants, what was I supposed to do?”  
  
“Come to me? We could have solved all of this hours ago. My migraine would have gone away so much faster. Do you know how much Ibuprofen I had to take today?”  
  
“Well sorry if I'm not particularly feeling bad for you, what with the lives of my-”  
  
“No need for the snide remarks, Jon. We'll find whatever drawing your nuisance wants and we'll all get some well-deserved rest.” His nuisance? Elias stands up and walks around the desk to sit on an edge closer to Jon. “What did it look like?”  
  
“A piece of paper with a bunch of scribbles on it.”  
  
“Scribbles?”  
  
“She had just gotten out of Michael's corridors. She wasn't making a lot of sense.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
Elias goes still again. Still and silent, eyes darting, no twitching back and forth and if Jon weren't staring at him he wouldn't have noticed it- he didn't even notice it before. Elias blinks and stares at Jon. What expression even is that?  
  
“Is it just scribbles, Jon?”  
  
“Well, I don't know how else to describe it. If it's- if it's touched by Distortion then it's just another blind spot right?”  
  
Elias looks spectacularly unamused and goes still again, and Jon looks at the small flashing red light in the corner of the office.  
  
“It's in Sasha's desk,” Elias tells him with a look that didn't convey an ounce of pity.  
  
“Of course it is.” Jon gets up and turns to go.  
  
“Jon. Did you tell Melanie about-”  
  
The door closes before Jon can hear the rest of it.  
  


  
…

  
  
In the dimly lit room, in the dusty misused corner, Jon stares at Sasha's desk, and his hands shake.

  
  
…

  
  
Ever since he's stopped using the tube, he's been stuck walking through town. No need to spite another angry god by being where he's not supposed to be. It's hard to tell which ones don't hate him. Or which ones want to kill him. The need for a distinction makes him exhausted.  
  
It starts raining towards the end of his commute home and before he knows it he's almost drenched through, his coat pulling him down, heavy with water.  
  
He doesn't keep the heat on when he leaves, a habit he's had since a researcher. No need to heat an empty apartment for who knows how long. He's been gone for three days at a time as an archivist, sleeping in the Institute to get his work done. He's been gone a few weeks, staying with Georgie.  
  
And now he's cold and wet and alone at home.  
  
He pulls out the map before throwing his clothes into the washer. A little wet at the edges but otherwise fine. He can redraw it if Michael has issues.    
  
It takes a while for the shower to warm up, so Jon is left naked with his thoughts. At the rate this is going, he's going to catch a cold. And wouldn't that be something? If he died from a fever, after everything he's been through.  
  
The worm scars twinged and his burnt hand wasn't any better. Michael's scar was thin, warm and unassuming on his hand.  He stares at it, at the tiny lines where his skin closed over for so long that the mirror's fogged over. Jon has to shake his head to snap back to reality and step into the shower.  
  
The warm water feels nice, at least. After the day he's had he thinks he's earned it.  
  
He looks at his scar again, and he can almost see the microscopic ridges where the lighter skin starts. He must stare at it for a while because there's cold water spraying on his back. He dries off and wraps himself in a towel before heading into the kitchen to start the kettle.  
  
Living alone has a few perks, at least.  
  
The habit of just leaving the shower in a towel had become so ingrained that a few times he gave Georgie and The Admiral more of an eye full then either they or he wanted him to.  In his own dingy flat, it's not a concern.  
  
Some part of him feels a cold coming.  
  
The tiles in the kitchen feel cold on his feet, and he tugs the towel tighter around his shoulders as he fills his kettle up and waits for it to heat. The mug is already sitting out and filled with the new Valerian tea Georgie gave him the last time he complained about the nightmares. He debates getting the sugar out and decides against it.  
  
He leans on his counter and closes his eyes.  
  
He must stand like that for a good few minutes because the kettle starts whistling loudly and Jon barely notices the time pass. He turns back around and fills his mug. He picks it up and turns to head into the bedroom just in time to see Michael sitting at his counter, staring at the piece of slightly damp paper.  
  
Jon does drop the mug this time, ceramic and hot liquid spray around the kitchen and cover his legs. He tries to get out of the kitchen or start sopping up the tea but Michael has now turned to look at him, and Jon decides on standing still and staring back.  
  
“Hello, Archivist.”  
  
Jon really wants to move.  
  
“Michael.”  
  
He doesn't. He stands there in his kitchen, with hot tea burning his legs and cheap china digging into his skin. He can do little other than just stare at his guest who smiles and smiles and smiles- beams at him really. Jon swallows. It's never bothered him outside the archive- maybe some small part of him thought it was all an elaborate lie- another extension of Beholding.  
  
If Jon thinks about it very hard, he can remember Sasha's statement about seeing Michael in a cafe, but that seems like a fever dream now.  
  
Michael really seems at place at the archives.  
  
“You're in my apartment.”  
  
“It would seem that way, yes.” There's a barely concealed giggle that makes Jon's legs hurt even more than they already do.  
  
“Why are you in my apartment, Michael?” Maybe if he makes himself sound bigger then he is.  
  
“You had done so well, Archivist.”  
  
The praise settles heavy in his stomach.  
  
How desperate is he?  
  
“Michael.”  
  
The smile grows even more full. Did something in his voice betray him? So many teeth stare back at him, and Michael takes a step towards him. Jon finally breaks his frozen position and takes a step back, on to a piece of ceramic that cuts into his foot terribly enough to make it bleed. His back hits his fridge and the handle digs in.  
  
He's going to have to scrub his kitchen clean for hours to get the stains out.    
  
“Archivist.”  
  
Michael isn't that much taller than him- at least Jon doesn't think he is-  usually, but two inches away it feels like it's looming over him. Jon swallows.  
  
“I found your map.”  
  
“I saw.” And he's just left with it staring. The fridge is cool against his back, and he has to try not to fidget. “You exceeded expectations, Archivist.”  
  
“Did- did you expect me to not find it?”  
  
Michael just smiles, and that's answer enough. Jon should have known better. Should have – What? Not taken the threat seriously? That seems like an even worse idea then overshooting expectations, apparently.  
  
“But you did. I'm so proud of you. Such a good archivist. I've never known a better one.” It lifts it's hand and Jon's life is all but flashing before his eyes before he feels-  
  
Something that could be compared to skin. If one had never felt skin before. It was just a little too- rubbery? No- silky? That's not it- Smooth like metal maybe- and tacky like rubber and soft like silk. Jon opens his eyes and freezes all over again.  
  
He's already had a finger through his wrist- carefully placed to not kill him, he's sure, but having all of Michael's hand pressed against his face, with its fingers inches from his brain, if he were to move even an inch he'd be brain dead.  
  
“You are always so entertaining.” It whispers, and Jon tries not to breath.  
  
Helen had told him, Martin had told him, everything told him just how dangerous this Thing is, but it's standing there, in his kitchen, holding his face, caressing it and Jon's only thought is of how grateful he is that this is his apartment and Georgie isn't going to walk into the kitchen at any moment.  
  
“So skilled.” Michael's voice is even closer now, practically inside his head.  
  
“What are you doing?” Jon whispers, quietly, slowly, horrified at the prospect of getting an impromptu lobotomy.  
  
“Admiring the work.” Jon's gaze dips to the floor, where the tea is starting to cool, and his blood is starting to get tacky.  
  
Between all of this nightmare he's forgot that he's still only wearing a towel.  
  
The blood curls into the clearer liquid, a thick long lazy spiral curls in his kitchen, made of his own blood and tea that he was going to enjoy. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Neither of those things was meant to be there. He can't feel the sting in his foot or the burn on his leg. He's alone in his kitchen staring at the floor, at the blood and the tea twisting around each other. Has he been blinking- it doesn't feel like it - the image has not left his vision for a second, for even a moment, but his eyes aren't burning. He follows the blood into the spiral and the tea out and the tea in and the blood out and it's so complimentary that all his worries fade away and there is nothing left but him and the spiral.  
  
The laughter tastes like copper on his tongue and Michael is patting his face with the back of its hand.  
  
The pain returns all at once. Michael moves away from Jon's face and takes a step back. And then another and another and it's on the other side of the counter, back to peering at its map, its big smile back on its face.  
  
Jon lifts his foot up, and the cut that seemed like it split his foot open was barely two inches long. The tea had gone cold, but that doesn't mean that it hurt less.  
  
“Are you still going to be here if I go change?” The first aid kit is in his bathroom, something Martin had insisted on giving him after the Prentiss incident. Just in case, he had said with a kind smile on his face. Jon hasn't touched it since.  
  
“Do you want me to be?”  
  
“Not particularly.”  
  


  
…

  
  
Jon throws the peal of bit of the band-aid into the trash and leaves his bathroom quietly, closing the door behind him gently as he can. His clothes are in the bedroom and if he can just cross the hallway without Michael noticing- if it were even still here- then he'd be fine. He could just go to bed and chalk it up to a nightmare. Wouldn't that be nice?  
  
“Hello, Archivist.”  
  
It's sitting on his bed, staring.  
  
“Still here then.”  
  
“Still here then.” It parrots back. “I thought it would be cruel to leave you without a reward.”  
  
Jon doesn't even want to entertain the notion.  
  
“You don't give rewards for repaid favors.” The luxury of social graces.  
  
“Yes.” Michael nods slowly. “And still. I want to reward you, Archivist.”  
  
Jon's mind goes places it shouldn't before he shakes his head sharply to knock the ideas out. He doesn't know what's come over him. Actually, yes, he does. Michael in his apartment is what's come over him and he's rather well had enough of it.  
  
“You can just tell me what you needed the map for.”  
  
“I could,” Michael says and stands. “I could do a lot of things.”  
  
“You- you already- That's- you don't have too. Really.”  It walks over to him regardless, and Jon presses against the wall. Why does he keep trying to get away from it when it's obviously fruitless. Michael watches. “Admiring the work?”  
  
The smile makes him sick.  
  
“The Eye doesn't deserve you.”    
  
Jon's blood runs cold.  
  
He hasn't seen Michael's door in all of the confusion, but now a fear that the wall he's pressing up against isn't a wall at all. He wouldn't be surprised. He's running out of things that would actually shock him  as of late.  
  
“You do then?” Jon wants to bite his tongue off.  
  
“Hm.” The room is so quiet. “Would that be so bad? I'm nicer than mean old Elias, right Archivist?”  
  
“Elias never stabbed me.”  
  
“Right - just murdered an old man who had so very many answers.”  
  
He lying- or he isn't- Jon doesn't know which lunatic to trust anymore. Or ever, really. His life has been a mess since he's been eight. Maybe he's just now realizing it. What would he even do if it wasn't this? Talking with monsters on a daily basis, turning into one himself, saving the world possibly, the whole of it, is it really better than just packing groceries somewhere?  
  
He'd have fewer scars at least.  
  
“What do you want, Michael?” The compulsion spills out of him like second nature.  
  
“Oh- oh that's- that's quite nice actually.” It straightens out to its full height before curling back in for a moment. “Cute that you think it'll work. You're tired. Come rest.” It points at the bed.  
  
“I'm- not that tired.” He mumbles, but he's walking along to it anyway and sitting on his cheap mattress. Michael can look down at him now, and Jon can look at its dirty clothes instead. At the floor, or his sheets, at anything other than the man who was not a man.  
  
At least Elias never followed him to bed.  
  
“Lay down, Archivist.”  
  
“I promise you I'm alright.”  
  
“Humor me.”  
  
Jon lays down flat on his back and stares at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach, unsure of what to do with them. He's still in just a towel. His first mistake really. Or more like his latest, in a long series of errors that started with reading a children's book and really just culminated at a convenient job interview. Had Elias known when he hired him that had already touched a Leitner?  
  
Was that why he was hired in the first place?  
  
“Michael?” The bed dips, and there's a weight and then a body, nudging him over. Jon moves without complaint.  
  
“Yes, Archivist?”  
  
It's in bed with him.  
  
“Earlier- when I was looking for the paper, Elias said that you had a presence? That Distortion had a- a literal distortion around it- that it was-”  
  
“Yes.” At least he doesn't have to embarrass himself anymore.  
  
“Do you? Have a presence?”  
  
“I've never looked through the Watcher's eyes, Archivist, I wouldn't know.”  
  
“What about-” He almost sits up in his excitement. “What about a- an essence of some kind?”  
  
“I... suppose?” It sounds amused. But when isn't it?  
  
“Do all of you- Gods have it?” Michael laughs again and does sit up then, looking down at him again.  
  
“Are you asking how many presences are on you, Archivist?”  
  
And then there's a hand on Jon's chest and all excitement, all sense of possible discovery and explanation, gone out the window in an instant. It's made all the worse when it straddles him, and any chance of escape is gone.  
  
“I- Yes?”  
  
The hand lifts until its fingers are almost dangling down and it drags them along his skin. He feels Michael's nails like the end of a needle. A very very very sharp needle.  
  
“Let us see.” It says, smile ever present. “You've got the Hive all over you. To be expected, of course.”  
  
“Of-of course.” The needle traces scars on his legs and his shoulders. “They were in me.”  
  
“It, Archivist. It was in you. And, mm. What else?” The needle lifts, and its palm brushes the burns. “Desolation.”  
  
“I thought she knew you.” Jon blurts out of nowhere. “Jude Perry- she said she knew a Michael.”  
  
“Desolation doesn't mind me.” It says, brushing the scars with its almost right skin. “But she didn't know me, did she, Archivist?” The hand lifts and settles on his throat.  
  
He hasn't been touched like this since college.  
  
It feels like centuries ago.  
  
“Mike Crew.” He whispers.  
  
“The Vast.” It supplies. “I think I knew him, before.”  
  
“That was you?” It doesn't answer, instead opting to move it's hand away from Jon's throat and to pick up his other wrist. It's a slow and almost delicate process. Its fingers are vertical on his vein. Press down and it's over.  
  
“The Spiral.” Jon lets it lift his wrist up to its lips. “I think this is called affection.” It says, and Jon can see its teeth inches from his skin.  
  
“Some people would think so.” It's barely a mumble.  
  
“Would you, Archivist?”  
  
Would he?  
  
Against his better judgment, Jon nods, and Michael laughs. He feels it down to his spine.  
  
“So much better than your predecessor. So undervalued. So... under appreciated.” Michael lets Jon's hand fall and the moment is dead. “And The Eye, of course.” Michael pats Jon's chest lightly. “As expected.”  
  
“Right. As expected.” He parrots back.  
  
“But you knew all of this already, didn't you Archivist?”  
  
There's really no subtle way to ask is there?  
  
“And The Web?”  
  
“From your little look-a-like?” From Not Them? Why would- Jon shakes his head. “A challenge.” Michael leans up, sounding very much like an excited child. “What are you looking for Archivist?”  
  
“Why did Elias hire me?”  
  
“Did you have a nasty run-in with some bugs, Archivist?” He can't tell if it's a joke or not.  
  
“When I was a child.” He stares up at the ceiling. He hates thinking about it. Remembering it. In his dreams, he's started seeing Michael in place of whoever the boy was. He couldn't remember the name a month ago, and now even the face is a blurry mess until The Distortion comes to claim it. They were both blonde. Close enough isn't it?  
  
Michael stands on his bed, still, in his shoes, Jon notices in mute horror. And honestly, that must be the worst part of all of this. To think. If only he had gone into literary studies as he planned to initially.  
  
The eyes are on every inch of him, and in its self, it is reminiscent of college.  
  
Is Elias watching too?  
  
Jon closes his eyes and tries not to think about it.  
  
“It's faint-” Curiosity. He can't imagine it'll end well. “But it's there- if you really pay attention. And your Master is so attentive, isn't he?”  
  
Of course, he knew. Of course. Jon was a moron for thinking otherwise. For thinking it was just a bad experience once, two decades ago. Michael slumps like a rag doll down on the space next to him again, and Jon sighs.  
  
“Thank you for the reward.”  
  
“Is that what it was? I thought I was doing you another favor.” Jon sighs even harder, louder, for effect more than anything and listens to the expected laugh.  
  
“What do you want, Michael?”  
  
“It's not what I want.” It says. “It really isn't what I want at all.”  
  
Jon lays there. It's gotten fairly dark out but it could just be the thick cloud cover. Rain beats against his window. Jon tries to remember the last time someone shared a bed with him.  
  
“Do you want to kill me?”  
  
“I wouldn't mind it either way.”  
  
Naturally.  
  
“Do you want trade secrets?”  
  
“Sweet that you think you have any I'm not already aware of.”  
  
“Michael.”  
  
“Maybe I want you, Archivist.”  
  
Jon's heart might as well actually stop then.  
  
Now-He's never been particularly interested in the concept and after all of the experimentation he's done in college he's had more than enough for a decade. But sure, if he's entertaining this line of very bad thinking Michael isn't really horrifically unattractive aesthetically speaking, and Jon is maybe a little physically excited from all of the weird attention, and yes he is already in bed and he might as well be naked if only for the sake of convenience, and on top of all of that how many people can brag about sleeping with a real monster but.  
  
Michael is still wearing boots in his bed. Boots that Jon is beyond a shadow of a doubt is certain that it never takes off, boots that it has worn to murder worms, murder people in, stand on rusted billboards and in dirty gardens and dusty wood paneling.  
  
To say nothing of it's Hands.  
  
“I don't want to die.”  
  
“Oh, Archivist.” Michael rolls on its side and Jon can see the twisting smile on his face from the corner of his eye. It really does reach all the way to it's ears, doesn't it. “You shouldn't lie to a professional.”  
  
“Funny.”  
  
He's aware of the fact that in every passing moment, he may say something that will finally push Michael to a point of irritation Jon won't be able to walk back from.  
  
“You are.” There's an arm on his chest that Jon tries to ignore. It weighs too little. Something twists in it, he thinks. Or maybe it's his brain trying to make the situation worse in an act of self preservation. “It's why I keep you around.”  
  
“Good to know I only have one redeeming quality.”  
  
“Archivist.” The arm retracts and fingers gently, as gently as knives can, grace against his skin.  
  
It only stings a little.  
  
“Michael.”  
  
Something about sharp knives hurting less crosses his mind, and when he looks down at his chest he sees tiny little red beads crop up and sit there. Michael is equally enraptured.  
  
“I've never had the pleasure of seeing an Archivist bleed before.” Jon turns his gaze to Michael's face, indiscernible.  
  
“I suppose my predecessor was more capable than me.”  
  
Michael doesn't answer. Instead it lifts its hand and before Jon can even think to stop him, drags it across his belly, watching more beads follow it's long, sharp fingers. Whatever it is, it's enough to still Michael for a while at least.  
  
“She wasn't my favorite person.” It finally says with more weight than usual. Jon can't help but stare at the blood on its fingers.  
  
“I don't suppose you'll tell me why.”  
  
“I promise I'll tell you.”  
  
“But not know?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
Another drag, more red beads, and Jon is left confused, slightly injured,  and with more questions then he started with.  
  
Just like always.  
  
“How would it even work?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“You and me.”  
  
The laugh is warm- present- all encompassing- as Michael nudges closer to him. Jon can't help but inch away, closer to the edge of his bed.  
  
“What happened to not wanting to die, Archivist?”  
  
“You – uh- You said you wouldn't.”  
  
“I don't remember lying about that.”  
  
“You- I still owe you at least another favor- right- I mean- another- You said I owe you. And I can't really- I owe you so-” There's a light weight on him and Jon leans his head back as far as he can. Debating on whether or not he was soon for death was fools errand, not when Michael was on him and he might want to make it hurt. “At least make it quick- and- and leave Martin and Tim alone- And Melanie and Basira and Daisy too- Just- Quick- Make it quick.”  
  
For a moment, it's all still. Michael doubles over with laughter that shakes the room and Jon is sure it comes close to liquifying his brain.  
  
“Oh Archivist.” The back of its hand settles on Jon's face again. It runs it up and down, almost petting him- and Jon considers the repercussions. He knows that Elias is going to hound him for answers tomorrow. He dreads it more than anything. More than getting his throat slit.  “The Eye really doesn't deserve you.”  
  
“Thank-- you?” A series of snickers and Michael removes its hand.  
  
“I do want you, Archivist. Parts of me do... wonder, if things had been different, what you would have felt like- in my corridors.” It sounds like it made a decision Jon already feels like he'll regret. “How would it work? Like anything else, I suppose.”  
  
Something twists in Jon's stomach, giddiness, maybe?  Some satisfaction in finally getting something over on his unloving god, on his asshole of a boss. Michael laughs again and maybe its an exposure thing but it just sounds distant, not like anything clawing at his skull from the inside.  
  
“Have you- With a human before uh-”  
  
“Are you pretending you're still one of them? Role play, I think it's called.” Jon swallows and tries to ignore the obvious baiting. He really does try. “Didn't know you were so... adventurous Archivist.”  
  
“I'm still fragile.”  
  
“Yes.” The word is drawn out and left to hang there. For the sake of dramatics, probably. “You certainly are.”  
  
“Why is that exciting for you--”  
  
“It's exciting for you.” It presses it's palm flat on Jon's belly, fingers like sharp stone brushing his sides.  
  
“Let it never be said that you're inattentive.” Michael beams at him and it hurts to look at. “I don't know how to go about this, honestly.”  
  
“I thought the Eye valued experience, Archivist.”  
  
“I have exactly enough experience to know I'm not interested in any further experience and even if I was all that interested in it I can't imagine it comparing to anything you have planned.”  
  
“So clever.” Michael rolls over fully on him and Jon's brain expected to be crushed by the weight of a person only to be lied to by reality yet again. “It's all been me, myself and I, Archivist, don't you want to participate too? Play with us for a change?”  
  
Touching Michael? The idea had never even entered his mind. Every single cell in his body screamed to get away from the sharp thing with the mean laugh and now it's laying on him and Jon's hands are at his sides, frozen like the rest of him.  
  
“I-”  
  
“Unless of course, you don't want your reward.” Michael leans closer, until its mouth is hovering over Jon's. “I can always just leave you disappointed.”  
  
“No- no.” Some part of him decided to see it through and now the rest of him is finally catching up. Tackle this like every other experience in his life. “I want to, I think, I just don't know how to even begin with you- why are you lighter? Then a real person, I mean, it's-”  
  
“Don't have as much filth to carry around with me. Just structural integrity. The rest of the space is coopted for storage.”  
  
“Storage of what?” The compulsion comes before he expects it and Michael shivers , it's face presses down against Jon's, forehead to forehead.  
  
“You don't want to know, Archivist.” It's a little breathier and up this close Jon can hear whatever makes it's laugh sound the way it does in every word. This can't possibly be good for his long term health.  
  
“What do I want to know then?” And again, he lets the question bleed out slowly, and again Michael shudders against him, it's eyes slowly closing. Jon can see more and more teeth at the blurry edge of his vision. “What does that feel like?”  
  
“Like buzzing.” It answers and Jon swallows slowly. Like Elias, he's sure it's just choosing to answer but still, there's just a little bit of a power hungry rush in him. Who would have thought. “In the very center of us- a breeze just strong enough to shake the hinges- just barely- it's very-” Michael's eyes shoot open. “Debilitating.”  
  
“That's- That doesn't sound good?”  
  
“I'm- Mi- I'm trusting you, right now, to not be like your predecessor, Archivist.”  
  
Jon doesn't know what that means. It closes its eyes again and leans on Jon's forehead and stills.  
  
Trust? Is it putting its trust in him? Or its trusting him not to abuse a situation Michael put itself into. Obviously, Jon knows, if this goes wrong- if he asks the wrong question, it'll slit his throat and be done with the entire affair but right now- it's a new experience for both of them.  
  
“Is it that obvious that I don't care about The Eye?”  
  
It practically purrs on his chest, face tucking into the crook of Jon's neck.  
  
“That I don't trust it?”  
  
He feels something sharp in his upper arm and he doesn't need to look to know that Michael grabbed on. He only hopes it's not tearing anything important.

"That it doesn't trust me?"

"Y-"  
  
“Is he watching us right now? Elias?”  
  
“He's trying- He's been trying for hours-”  
  
“Hours?” Hasn't it only been a few minutes? Half an hour at least?  
  
“Time is so hard at the best of times Archivist, don't tease me in a state of weakness.” Jon can't help the tiny laugh that escapes out of his throat. He can't remember the last time he's laughed.  
  
“You're only letting me do this to you aren't?” It is purring and Jon can feel it through his chest. Like a rib cage full of bees.  
  
“Yes-”  
  
“Why now?” Its legs twist and until they're flush against Jon's, and if it wasn't for the boots they would be even closer. “You could have asked anytime- made me do this anytime- but you waited till right now-”  
  
“Mm- Busy-”  
  
“Busy... hunting?” A groan that sounded like metal scraping against rust. “Eating?” He's not sure if it works on single word questions but Michael seems to be enjoying himself. “Building up your strength until you were sure you can handle me?” A bark of a laugh echos through the room but it's cut short by a distant gasp. Jon feels something move against his stomach.  
  
“Archivist-” It's so quiet Jon almost doesn't hear it.

No time to stop.  
  
“Do you actually like me?” He whispers back.  
  
“Mm- Complicated.” Something moves against his leg. It feels like Michael is undulating against him, light but present. “You're-” Its voice is raspy. Raspier. “Interesting beyond belief sometimes.”  
  
He might enjoy the writhing if it wasn't so intermittently horrifying.  
  
“Unpredictable?” A chuckle so close to his ear is an experience he didn't want. Jon feels warm. “Do you like praising me?” It grinds on him and Jon honestly can't remember the last time he's ever felt so powerful before. “Would you do it more?”  
  
“Yes-”  
  
“Please?”  
  
“You could be so better served else where.” That's not what he was expecting- and the coherence of the statement maybe ruins the illusion a little bit but Michael is still there, rolling its body against his.  
  
“Is that all?”  
  
“You're such a good Archivist and your Watcher doesn't even acknowledge you, doesn't adore you like he should.” That's decidedly unpleasant to imagine.  
  
“Really?” It nods so frantically against his skin Jon worries it'll snap its head clean off.  
  
“I'd steal you away if you weren't claimed already, it doesn't deserve you. It doesn't love you. It doesn't care about you. It-”  
  
“Not like you do?”  
  
Jon watches its face as it opens its mouth and no sound comes out of it.  
  
He's never been more unnerved.  
  
He counts the moments with Mr. Spider. With Elias and Not Them and Jane Prentiss and Jude Perry and Mike Crew. With every single statement. Nikola Orsinov in Georgie's apartment.  
  
A moment passes, and then another, and finally Michael opens its eyes to look at him. It's inhumanly still, and Jon has to wonder if he didn't accidentally kill it before his arm starts stinging as Michael pulls its fingers out of his forearm. There's warm blood seeping into his filthy sheets.

Everything is still for a moment.  
  
“Not like I do.” 

  
  
…

  
  
He meets Helen Richardson for the second time in five weeks and his forearm stings like his skin is rotting. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He considers asking what it will think of him if he just lays down flat on the cold concrete but decides just to go ahead and do it. It helps him wake up from whatever haze he was in faster. The blood already dried. His sense of time has gone completely out the window.
> 
> “That was the worst experience of my life.” He says at the empty sky.
> 
> “Worse then Corruption digging its way through you?” Jon shudders at the memory. Can't help himself. “Worse then Vast flinging you around like a toy? Worse then Desolation melting you?”
> 
> “My life is a series of bad experiences at the hands of nightmares, I'm aware.” Just acknowledging it brings him to the verge of tears. He hasn't had time to process any of it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broke: working through your writers block over the course of several weeks  
> Woke: listen to the new episode and get too excited and write 12 pages in a fever pitch  
> Bespoke: watch the entirety of the terror in one sitting and absolutely have it effect those 12 pages of writing because individual media consumption is for cowards and fools and mental separation of quality horror is Hard
> 
> yall should watch the terror
> 
> also the chapter count went up by one cause of plot development
> 
> not beta'd

The corridors are- difficult.

The second he walks through, for a second, maybe even less, yes it must have been for less the even a second he turns back to look through the door, and a sharp inhuman hand twists his head back forward. In his flat, Michael was light and barely substantive, but now it's palm is massive, pressing his head into his shoulders. He understands why.

A migraine is upon him in an instant.

“I said I wasn't going to kill you.” Its voice reverberates through every particle of his being.

“No offense but you did just spend half an hour telling me how much of a liar you are.”

“Hm.” He can't even begin to describe what it sounds like. Familiar and painfully new all at once. Distant and in his head. Deep and light and horrifically nauseating. There's an echo to every word from the both of them.

“Not even a laugh?”

“I could if you like. But it will shred you in an instant.” Nice to know the change in management was going to let him cut down on Advil. “Left here.” Jon didn't even realize they came to a crossroad.

“Do you actually know where we're going?” He's only been here maybe a few seconds, and he's already lost.

“Of course I do. You gave us a map. Thank you, for that, again. Would have been quite inconvenient if Michael had had his way with you. I wouldn't mind, of course, but for such a petty reason as revenge it- it would be a waste.”

So it- Distortion, Liar, Spiral, had been in charge of ordering him around, at least that day. That's nice to clear up. At least. Except- He hadn't actually had he- No- No, indeed not he couldn't have-

“A waste?” Jon stares at the ugly carpeted floor.

“Did you forget our fateful meeting so soon, Archivist?” Helen's delivery was so much dryer the Michael's he really can't tell if it's meant to be sincere or not.

“That was you then- not- not Michael?”

“Well. We did agree on things, from time to time.”

Jon stares straight ahead and doesn't talk. Helen leads him down the corridor after corridor after corridor after corridor after corridor. He's not tired surprisingly- well, not any more tired than he already was when he went through the door. Mirrors are shattering and shattering and shattering and shattering and shattering, and wallpaper is fading into different colors.

On occasion, he hears panting and rushed footsteps, and there's something even more unsettling knowing there are others here for- for whatever it does to them.

There's something like music, maybe. Jon can't bring himself to trust any of what he's experiencing right now. Something slow and high pitched far away from him. How did Helen find her way out the first time well enough to remember what any of this looked like? He's barely functioning as a person anymore. But then he isn't right? Not really?

There's a short bark of a laugh, the first he's heard from her, and he feels his bones scape against each other. He wants to turn back, to ask what that was but he can barely open his mouth from the force of it.

They're standing in front of a mirror for what must be a few seconds or minutes or hours before Jon remembers what he's supposed to do. The first kick is feeble, and Helen is silent and unamused behind him.

That's worse, somehow.

The second kick is better, and the glass splinters, thin hairline fractures turning into big jagged pieces and scattering to the floor, but not before Jon stares at the slowly developing Lichtenberg fractal. It's all refracted on itself, and he's barely capable of comprehending anything. Information is barely being processed. Something nudges him through broken glass, and Jon moves forward. It's nothing but ugly wallpaper and dirty carpet and doors and doors and doors and doors and doors.

“Archivist.” Is that him? Is that what he is? Is he even a he anymore? Not just another it?

There's a sharp pain in his shoulder that Jon doesn't register until it gets sharper and sharper and

Oh. There's a yellow door in front of him, and the massive shape of The Spiral behind him and he gasps when it's finger retracts and warm blood seeps into his dirty shirt. He puts a hand on the handle and steps through and the cool night air crashes against him.

“If it's all the same.” He starts and swallows and collapses under the weight of himself. “I'd rather not do that again.”

Helen steps out behind him, and the door is gone in an instant. Its heels look like they're stained with something.

“There's that humor of yours.” Its voice is softer now, whether that's the situation or the new body, Jon isn't sure.

He's never sure about anything, and that's just his life now.

He considers asking what it will think of him if he just lays down flat on the cold concrete but decides just to go ahead and do it. It helps him wake up from whatever haze he was in faster. The blood already dried. His sense of time has gone completely out the window.

“That was the worst experience of my life.” He says at the empty sky.

“Worse then Corruption digging its way through you?” Jon shudders at the memory. Can't help himself. “Worse then Vast flinging you around like a toy? Worse then Desolation melting you?”

“My life is a series of bad experiences at the hands of nightmares, I'm aware.” Just acknowledging it brings him to the verge of tears. He hasn't had time to process any of it at all.

“Just trying to be helpful. I feel rather helpful. I think.” It gets down low and hovers its face over him, Helen's long hair blotting out any distraction.

Jon stares up at it and sighs.

It's always back to Distortion, isn't it?

“I suppose I owe you another favor then?”

Helen smiles, and it reaches its eyes. It steps out of Jon's way, and he sits up slowly. The street is still empty, still quiet. He can't tell what time it is, only that it's night and he's sure just being here- appearing out of nothingness- gave Elias a heart attack.

It's the little victories.

“Suppose you do, Archivist.”

“Of course,” He stands up on shaky legs and scrubs his face dry with his arm. “Thanks for the lift then. Guess I'll see you around when you decide to grace me with your presence.”

“In such a hurry to be rid of me?” Jon turns to look at it, crumpled and dirty business casual, just like what Helen looked like when Jon watched her go through Michael's door months ago. God so many things have changed since then. “I want more favors, Archivist.”

“Y-you just don't usually-”

“Michael didn't usually.”

“I-” Jon nods. “I need time to adjust to the new personality.”

“Only partially new. Or maybe all new. Lots of things to consider.”

“You did say that.”

“Mm.” It's a lot like a child now, every step dangerously close to snapping an ankle it may or may not have and watching it take steps in its new body would be funnier if Jon didn't know what it was capable of.

“Did you-” He doesn't know how to phrase it without sounding skeevy, so he goes for it. Caution to the wind. New lease on life sort of thing. “Did you wear a woman before?”

“Not for a while.” If Jon had to do the mental math, that would be at least before Michael, and then when it had gotten strong enough for it's... transcendence it probably wasn't feeding as it did now.

“It's probably the heels, then.” Jon hadn't even noticed Helen's heels when she came into the office. Four inches heels on rugs in its corridors and she survived for months. He barely lasted a few minutes. Or however long that was. It tilts it's head down to stare at them with an indiscernible look and Jon wonders if it can even take the clothes its wearing off or if they're stuck to it like a second skin. Third skin? Fourth?

“Helen likes them.” Like Helen liked Jon. The only real reason he's probably not dead- well. The Liar liked him too. Maybe.

“You can barely walk in a straight line. That's not particularly menacing.” There's a short, clipped laugh on its end.

“You like menacing?” It's head tilts, and with Helen's hair spilling down the way it does, Jon remembers Georgie's obsession with bad internet stories in college.

“I-I've had my fair share of menacing. Let me take them off before you stab me by accident.”

“What a happy accident that would be.”

Jon walks over slowly and kneels so that he can get at the straps of the heel. They're expensive, he knows that much when his hands touch the leather. Helen stares down at him, hair once again curtaining off the sky. Some part of him reassures the rest that he'd never do this sort of thing if it hadn't just saved him from getting skinned alive. Some other part of him insists that it would.

The hole Michael left in his forearm stings.

His fingers a clumsy at undoing the strap but eventually it comes undone, and he cups the back of the heel. It steps out of it slowly, with hesitation or to make Jon wait, he can't be sure. The other shoe takes just as long, but he managed the buckle and Helen stands in front of him barefoot.

When he stands up with them in his hands, he realizes he's just barely taller than it now.

It makes him giddier then it should.

“Better?”

It smiles as the compulsion bleeds into it. Instead of an answer or an attack of any kind, it turns on its heels and starts walking away from him down the center of the street. Jon looks at the road, at Helen's bare feet, at the shoes in his hands, and follows after it.

“Helen sold houses.”

“Ah- yes?” Big fancy houses in expensive parts of the city with enough of a paycheck to afford what must undoubtedly be a pair of heels worth several hundred pounds. And dirty crumpled business casual that Jon is sure went for about the same.

“And you need a new house.”

“I-” Yes- they knew where he lived. Where Georgie lived. The Stranger had let itself into his home like it was nothing. He'd have to move, of course. Of course. Another inconvenience. “Elias will probably-”

“Helen sold houses.” It says again, and Jon can hear the barely hidden indignation.

His mind is still slow from the captivity, but nothing snapped him to reality quite like The Spiral does.

“You can't be serious.”

“What a convenient Wanderer, don't you think, Archivist?”

“I think it doesn't matter what I say to you.”

“Look at you. Learning.”

“So what- you're going to break into her office and forge paperwork?”

“Not quite.” It stops dead in its tracks, and Jon almost walks into it. “You're going to break into her office and forge paperwork.”

“I-” He's ready to start complaining but when has that ever gotten him anywhere.

“Can't quite do Paperwork, can I, Archivist?”

It's turned around, and it beams at him, and Jon can see all of the teeth he wants nothing to do with. It lifts one of its hands and points it at his shoulder, and Jon remembers the blood again.

“Ah-No. No, you can't.”

It smiles, and Jon is left with nothing but to follow its orders.

Again.

 

…

 

They're in the flat by five in the morning.

The keys are new, as is the lock. The countertops are marble. There's a fireplace and a second floor. And he's the legal owner with another company footing the utility bill. There's furniture- new furniture, not like his last apartment with a loaned out mattress. No stains on the wall, though he's sure they'll show up in time. There's even a balcony garden.

He can't wait to have to explain this to Elias tomorrow.

Now, though, he sets Helen's heels by the door and stares at all of the things he couldn't afford on his own.

“That's four now?” Helen is having a fun time ogling everything too. Probably.

“Four?”

“Favors?”

Jon doesn't say anything.

The sun rises through his new windows after a while, and Helen wanders around the apartment. Jon is sure it would have left by now under any other circumstance- Jon honestly has no idea what it wants. Unless it's decided to act like his protector but that sounds horrifically off base for the entire situation.

His clothes are dirty, and he hasn't eaten in a month. That's how long he's been gone, an entire month. No rescue, no contact, just Nikola, and lotion, for a month. And of course, The Beholding once again proves itself to be utterly useless.

If Jon's mouth is gagged, he's utterly useless too.

Maybe he should ask Daisy to teach him how to- how to what? Punch a doll in the face? He shakes his head and puts his face in his hands. What did Georgie think- would any of them have even told her?

No, of course not.

There's a rotary phone on the kitchen counter, and if the clock is to be believed, it's nearing six, sometimes Georgie got up at six. She was going to kill him but looking at his options it really is the best way for him to go at this point.

He dials, and it rings for a few seconds before she picks up the phone.

“Georgie?”

“...Jon?”

She yells at him before he can explain the situation, and then it sounds like she's on the verge of tears with an apology. He tells her he'll come to visit today before going to tell his good for nothing boss a few words.

He doesn't mention the house.

Helen wanders over at some point, makes a show of bending its neck at everything in the kitchen before settling for staring at him.

He gives Georgie one last apology and hangs up the phone.

“Three favors.” He says with a long drawn out sigh. “I paid you back for one already.”

Jon watches as it lifts it's hand and nudges Jon's old wrist scar.

“You did.”

“I... did.” He closes his eyes, and it's as if the weight of the past month hits him all at once. He's never been this tired in his life. “Are we just going to go back and forth trading favors?”

“It seems like a perfectly good way to exist, don't you think?”

“Rather transactional.”

“Nothing wrong with transactional, I think.” Jon nods, slowly. Sure. At this point at least it gets things done. As long as he doesn't think about it as prostituting himself to a Power for future life-threatening events to be mitigated he could probably get behind it.

“Do you want something else? I think I might fall over where I stand.” It smiles, and Jon regrets asking. He thinks he might finally be learning the differences between smiles of self-interest and smiles of malignance.

It looks like it wants to ask for something but it stops itself. A small shake of the head and it takes one more look around the room.

“Good night, Archivist.”

And then Jon is alone.

When he comes downstairs from his nap, Helen's shoes are gone from the doorway.

 

…

 

Sleepless night after sleepless night after sleepless night coupled with what feels like withdrawal symptoms and an uncomfortable hotel bed in foreign soil must finally drive him mad because Michael, very definitely dead Michael, is standing on top of his bed, staring down at Jon in his dirty boots, with his messy blonde hair and his long, dangerous fingers just like he did in his old bedroom.

“Hello, Archivist. Been a while.”

For a moment he's paralyzed by fear. And then by confusion.

“Aren't you dead? Twice? Twice dead?”

“Well. It's all relative, isn't it? Alive, dead, whatever state you're in right now.”

“But Helen-”

“I'm not Helen right now, am I, Archivist?” There's the vicious smile he's used to, all teeth and sharp angles and now what he knows is malice. “It's just you and me and your little recorder and all of the favors you owe me. Isn't that nice? Isn't that fun, Archivist?”

“I-”

“You've missed me, haven't you? I know I missed you.” It drops with a bounce on to the mattress, knees on either side of him.

“Michael- I-I don't understand? You-” Burned? Died? Extinguished, maybe?

“I'm the Liar, Archivist. Do try and keep up.” The palms of its hands press his shoulders flat into the mattress, and Jon can't run. Not like he would- or that he ever could. Teleporting doors and all.

“You tried to kill me.”

“But I didn't.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

With a sharp twist, two fingers rest on both of his cheeks, nails only a few centimeters from his eyes.

“But I didn't.” It repeats slowly. Steadily. And again, Jon feels fear deep in his gut that more then overpowers any shivering sickness that might be growing in him.

“You didn't.” He relents. There's no reason to agitate it any further than he already has. Hair trigger, it seems. “You didn't-so-”

“Archivist.” It says and lays flat against Jon again, face pressing against his own.

“M-Michael.” He says quietly.

“Open me again. I'm letting you. I trust you, Archivist.”

“You tried to-” Jon doesn't know what to say or what to do so instead he asks, with everything he can muster. “Where did you go?”

Michael shudders against him, full body tremors that almost border on a seizure. It's nauseating, but there's been no twisting laugher. Not yet at least.

“Oh, I've missed you, Archivist. My Archivist. My Archivist and nothing else's.” Jon's face burns in an instant. “Don't argue, Archivist. I know what's best.” He wasn't planning on it. He's more than content to sit here and have it. Jon isn't sure if it's the fever or the fear or-or something else but here he is- under it again. At its mercy. “Where you belong.” It says glides a hand down his bare chest.

At least he has a pair of trousers on this time.

“Michael.” It's barely a breath, and Michael's hand digs into his side. Jon grits his teeth and tries to keep the scream in. Five fingers- knives- sharp stones and nonhuman skin- stick between his ribs and Jon can't even bring himself to sit up. They scrape against his bones, and Jon feels it in his teeth. They've probably perforated his lung.

It hurts less then he thought it would. He tries to crane his neck down to look, to see crimson seeping into the sheets but Michael moves to get in the way every time.

“Shh- Archivist. Sit still.”

“Thought-” It's not that hard to breathe, should be harder- maybe it's the adrenaline- “Thought you weren't killing me-”

“Who lied to you about that?”

And finally, finally, finally, there it is.

Twisting laughter, like coming from his own mouth. He feels something warm on his neck. Jon wouldn't be surprised if it ruptured his eardrums.

Michael is so casual in his violence, so indifferent in his destruction of the Archivist that Jon is rather put off by the entire thing. Some inherent sense of wrongness- of this-is-not-what-it-is- that all of this must be-

Michael's other hand shoves through the other side of his rib cage. Jon thinks he can feel elastic leather skin against his heart. Jon's face feels wet. Blood or tears- he can't tell- he can't know what's going on-

“Mi-”

“Shh, Archivist. I've got you. You believe me, don't you?”

No.

Jon nods his head, and Michael slowly pulls its hands out of Jon's chest. His entire body sags flat on the mattress, and Michael smiles all of his teeth at him. The room goes dark- how- why- and Michael's hair hides the rest of the world from him.

Not as long as Helen's- not dark- not-

Its mouth is on him, and Jon kisses back immediately- like he's starving for it- what is he doing what is going on- and feels something sharp prick at his tongue. He doesn't even have to imagine what it is- he's just glad it's not being bit off.

Michael pulls back, and smiles and smiles and smiles and Jon stares up at him in awe. He's never had it sink in before that this is the face of a god.

“Your god.”

Of course. No one else cared for him. Even countries apart, It's still the only thing that bothers enough to check in, to come find him and care for him through his fever.

“I-”

“Mm?”

“I remember what you told me- last time.”

The smile twists beyond its ears now.

“It's true,” Michael tells him, and Jon believes it, drinks it in like its gospel. “Nothing loves you like I do.” Jon gasps when its hands cradle his face, sharp skin bisecting soft- no warmth no red no wet- “Say it.”

“N-Nothing- Nothing loves me like you do- Michael-”

“That's a good boy.” Something sharp digs into his sides even with Michael's hands on his face. He can only see familiar long black legs from the corner of his eye. “Always have been a good boy, haven't you?”

There's a door opening and closing somewhere. Knocking and closing and opening and screaming.

“Michael- what-”

“Only me. Only me and you and nothing and no one else. Right, Archivist?”

“Yeah- yeah.” And still the clattering behind him in the dark. Behind him? There's a wall behind him- the lights were on- something- “Only me.”

“And me. What am I, Archivist?”

“Liar.”

“And?”

“Distortion.”

“....And?”

“Spiral.” The room goes still- silent and empty. Michael's golden hair glows in the light of itself. “Whose are you, Archivist?”

Jon doesn't want to say the word.

“Yours.”

“What a good boy.” It leans down and kisses him again, sharp and angled. Jon feels the loving exultation of a god on his mouth. There's no reverberation in Michael's voice anymore. Was there ever any?

“Are we going to-” He trails off and Michael gives him another monstrous smile.

“Whatever you want, Archivist. Whatever you want.”

He doesn't know what he wants. Love, maybe? He's heard other avatars harp on and on and on about how much their gods loved them. Yes- love. He wants it more then he can breathe. To finally be included in a way only something powerful can include him. To finally know his meaning- no questions- no obfuscations- no pipes and guns and lies from a man who uses him like he's just a tool. His world is nothing but the Twisting Deceit now.

And Jon is perfectly fine with that.

He's glad he thought ahead enough to get naked- he wasn't he was dressed he was- so that his wonderful loving god didn't have to do any work.

What work would it have even been- his clothes would have been ribbons in seconds- how strong his god is.

The room is still, and quiet, and Michael glows and smiles and laughs, and Jon bleeds and sweats and yearns.

Its hands dig into his arms, run him through, and he's more than content to stare up where he's pinned and marvel. Its eyes are like glass and Jon is beautiful in their reflection. He's never felt like this before in all the years of his existence, and he has never felt like this before.

None of this feels real.

Michael's cock is in him almost instantly, and Jon throws his head back, not daring to take his eyes off of Michael's face for even a moment. He's hard, leaking by the time Michael's hips start moving against his, it's hands gripping tighter and tighter.

“Talk for me, Jon.”

Jon talks- compels like its as natural as talking, as blinking, as breathing, as thinking and

There is a longing in its touches, fingers grazing his chest, soft and kind and loving and

He's hot beyond measure, and there's a tightness in his gut that he hasn't felt in ages not since college and

Its face is in Jon's neck, and its body is seizing on top of him and Jon talks. He talks and spirals and lies and

What?

There is no reverb in its voice- no pain in his side- no blood anywhere on the white hotel sheets-

Does it even know his fucking name?

 

...

 

Jon wakes with a start and lurches out of bed in a desperate attempt to make it to the bathroom before he throws up all over himself.

When he's done retching, dry heaving the dinner he couldn't have eaten because he had a fever- from- what- from distance withdrawal- statement withdrawal? His mind slowly comes back to him. He stares into the mirror and feels sick all over again. He settles on washing his face and getting into the shower to get all of the sweat off instead.

The fever breaks sometime in the shower, and he can finally breathe deeply enough to actually calm down.

There are no scars- so just a nightmare then. That's all. That's all it was. No scars probably means nothing forced him to have that- other than the fever at least.

He has nightmares every day so why did this one shake him this much?

It was all a bit too involved, maybe.

The room is cold, and despite himself, he pulls the blanket off of the second bed and onto his own. Jon turns in on himself. Alone again. Something about the nightmare stays with him even if the details start blurring away.

Good to know at least some part of him is still aware that distortion could stab and kill him.

He starts shivering again, too hot and too cold all at once. The lights in the room are still on, but he's not trying to stay awake anymore. He wants to- wants to what? Relive that again?

With how bad the shaking is getting Jon doubts he'll be sleeping any time soon.

His laptop is on the table, and Jon absolutely does not have the energy to get up and get to it. The remote on the nightstand is closer and after what feels like a solid minute of inching he turns on the tv. Count of Monte Cristo- some old black and white version that Jon could stare at until he tricked himself into feeling better.

Maybe he should call Georgie- but then with the time difference.

Maybe he should call Elias and ask him what was wrong with him now.

Maybe he should yell until the Distortion comes and explains why it does anything at all.

 

…

 

After another kidnapping, after Gerard and the page he still hasn't burned, after the plastic explosives, and questions and irritations and anxiety, he doesn't even remember to ask Helen about the dream that horrified him into a week of insomnia.

**Author's Note:**

> any type of comment is always encouraged and very very very appreciated
> 
> please [talk to me](http://iamalivenow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> yall ever remember that this is a horror podcast cause i do sometimes


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